How amazing that in the world of poetry, the writer --
no, the supposed author, is to be viewed as this
individual whose grammar skills are to be placed on
some kind of pedestal...
What load of poo is that I ask?
Yet, here sits this body barely hanging out the
nearby windowsill, thinking up of something to say-
figuring out what lines to produce or even supplement
them in repetition; fondled synopsis' pillowed fabrics of
affectivity leaving only a mere trace of its former
self
But then, why is it that every wind breathing
by, can't conversed the way this mind wants
to converge upon?
Perhaps, that's an answer my soul will never know
So as if sitting wasn't enough, distractions of every kind walked
be, smiling those smiles, while terminologies of phrases stick around
wanting to be finally heard
I screamed! Thinking that this was the only possible way to
be simply written beyond the almighty, absolute winds; messages
secretly voice their opinions yet repeated echos quiver in those
pools of blackened blood called ink.
Adding your comment: